


The Reichenbach Jump

by bmo_galaxy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Death, Depression, M/M, Mourning, Reichenbach, Reichenbach AU, Sadness, Suicide, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bmo_galaxy/pseuds/bmo_galaxy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU Reichenbach) What if it had been John that Moriarty went after to hurt Sherlock? The call wasn't about Mrs. Hudson being shot, it was a call from the devil. Moriarty offers John a deal to end all of the torment. All he has to do is jump.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reichenbach Jump

When the phone rang, he didn't look at the caller ID. Very few people called him, and since Sherlock was sitting four feet from him, the list of people who could possibly be phoning him was limited. And considering the situation they had gotten themselves into, John only had one guess as to who could be on the other end of this call. He pressed the 'answer' button sharply.

"Lestrade, I'm not telling you where we are. He didn't do what you're accusing him of and you know it." He kept his voice low and hushed, not wanting Sherlock to hear him. He doubted that the consulting detective would hear him if he was standing right next to him, though. The doctor could tell by the glaze over Sherlock's usually bright eyes that the dark haired man was lost in his thoughts; lost in the numbers, clues, facts. John still turned his back to the unseeing man when he spoke.

"Oh, John. Such a protective dog. Did they teach you that in the army, or were you born with this single minded loyalty." His voice was smooth and rich, even with the teasing, malicious undertone. It made John's blood run cold. "You know, that loyalty is wasted on a man who couldn't care less about you."

The blonde's free hand clenched into a tight fist. Even without being a consulting detective, John knew that Jim calling him was a bad thing. Nothing good came when dealing with the villain.

"What do you want?" John whispered harshly. He threw a worried glance back at Sherlock as he casually walked away from Sherlock and toward the door. Moriarty laughed on the other end.

"Oh John, don't be so daft. You know exactly why I'm calling. It's about _him_. The one they're all talking about, the fake genius, the lying detective. The man who _made it all up._ " His voice was a vicious hiss, but John could almost see the smirk turned sneer on his face. It made John's blood for from zero to one hundred in his veins; it pumped through him angry and hot. He wanted to chin Moriarty the same way he had the chief.

"It was all an act. You are Moriarty. Richard Brooks never existed-"

"Oh, he existed. He was just a few lines of computer code and poof, a man appears from thin air. And just as easily, he falls away with no one to find him. Even that pretty little journalist won't be able to find him. She's search desperately for days, weeks, months, looking for the man I made her believe was real. She'll lose her mind looking for him," he laughed loudly, obnoxiously, mockingly, "But that isn't what matters. What matters right now is Sherlock, the one who is really losing his mind."

John glanced at the man at those words. He was bouncing a ball against the filing cabinets again, immersed in his thoughts and stress. He didn't know that John existed right now. Turning away, he scowled.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to meet me on the top of the building across the street. You have five minutes. If you aren't here, _alone_ , by that time, I kill him." On cue, the blonde doctor saw the little blip of red light shining through the window. Sherlock hadn't noticed it yet, but the moment that John did, it disappeared before he had a chance. John gulped uncomfortably around the lump of dread growing in his throat.

"I'm on my way." The call ended.

He hung up the phone with a decisive click and took a moment to breath. The fire was still burning in his veins, but the dread was like a ball of icy lead in his gut. The warring emotions made him vaguely ill. Taking another deep, steadying breath, he turned to Sherlock.

"It's Mrs. Hudson, she's been shot. We have to-"

"Not now, I'm busy." His voice was deadpan and matter-of-fact. A small flicker of anger that Sherlock was brushing this off, even if it was a lie, zipped through him before it was drowned in relief. He was buying the lie.

"Busy?"

"Yes, I'm working. I need to think, I'm thinking."

John remembers yelling, almost arguing with him (as much as you can argue with a wall), but he doesn't remember what he said. He was so relieved that Sherlock was taking this lie without suspicion that he didn't care what he said at this point. Before he knew it, he was striding purposefully out of the room and shrugging into his coat. He tried to ignore the twisting in his stomach that told him something terrible was going to happen.

He took the steps two at a time. He wondered, as he climbed, which room the shooter was in. The shooter with his gun trained at Sherlock's head. He pushed the thought away when he faced the heavy metal door labeled "ROOF". He pushed it open without hesitation. It was cooler up here, the breeze was more of a wind and it bit at his cheeks. He ignored it.

He only had attention for the man sitting on the edge of the building. His phone was playing a song that he'd heard on the radio a time or two, the kind of song you knew the tune of but not the words. He would have hummed along in any other situation.

"Ah, a good song, eh? Perfect for the situation." Moriarty rose from his perch and shoved his still chirping phone into his pocket. He was ambling casually toward John with a shit eating grin on his face, as if he had all the answers to the universe. As if John was a simple ant in the way of something bigger. John wanted to chin him more than ever.

Jim was a few feet from him now. He pulled a hand from his pocket to point at John. He was chuckling. "You, Mr. Watson, are a funny man. A strange, funny man." He was full blown laughing now. John felt like he was missing the joke.

Moriarty continued.

"You must be wondering why you're here. You aren't like Sherlock, you," he pointed a long finger at John, "You don't figure things out like he does. You're ordinary, absolutely no fun at all on your own. With him, though, you become interesting. You become _fun_." The spider was walking around him now in a slow arch, like a predator circling its prey. John didn't move, he followed Jim with his eyes.

"Now, despite what it may seem, I didn't bring you here for fun. I brought you here to offer you a solution to your problem."

"What problem?" he barely kept his voice from snapping. Moriarty grinned at him like he was an idiot.

"Well, I suppose it really is more Sherlock's problem than yours, but you two are inseparable after all. You've seen the papers, haven't you?" He was teasing again. John didn't reply.

"Anywho, I've invited you here to offer you a solution. A solution to the vicious rumors, the hate, the harassment, the lies-"

"The lies that you started," John yelled, his temper rising. Being in this man's presence brought on fury, as well as fear. He had a crawling feeling along his skin at being so close to him.

"Oh, technicalities, my dear Watson," Jim waved his hand through the air as if to dispel that train of conversation, "Now, can we please get to the point?" He didn't pause for John to answer. "Good, now, I'm offering you a chance to end it all. End the rumors, the hate, the harassment, the doubt; all of it. If you fulfill your end of this pact, I will turn the tide in his favor again. Make the media _love_ him again. Make the public _adore_ him again. Make sure that Lestrade never doubts him again, but only if you do as I ask."

"What are you asking?"

Moriarty stepped toward him, smiling cruelly. "I want you to jump."

There was a beat of silence which was pierced by the cry of a seagull. John felt his heart trip in his chest before picking up full speed.

"W-What? Jump? Why, what will that get you in the end?"

"I've become bored with Sherlock and I wish to end this game once and for all. However, I must have the last strike. It's only tradition that the villain make on last devastating strike against the hero. And you, my ordinary, boring friend, are the only way to touch Sherlock."

John could only stare for a moment before he looked at the seagull flapping its wings furiously in the distance. It was a dot on the horizon before the doctor spoke.

"How do I know you won't just go after him after I... do it?" the concept was still too new to talk about openly. He swallowed hard.

Jim shrugged and shoved his hand in his pocket. Pulling it out, he waved a shiny gun in the air for a moment before twirling it between his fingers and grinning.

"Oh, I'm going too, not to worry. As I said, the game is done. I just want the last strike. And I'll have it. You see, my men need to see you fall or they put a bullet in everyone one of their heads. Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson; _all of them._ "

They were both thinking about the one name that he hadn't listed. The one name that meant the most.

Casually, with the sort of ease that only a maniac can pull off, he cocked the gun and held it tightly in his left hand. He made no move to fire the gun yet.

"You don't care about them though, do you? Not really. You really aren't the compassionate hero that people paint you up to be. Wounded at war, you're a quietly celebrated soldier. People assume that you work with him to protect the public, to save those that are the victims of your cases." There was that grin again, the one that looked like a shark in the face of bleeding prey. "You aren't there for them, though. You're there for _him_. To protect him, to follow him, to be with him. It was always about Sherlock. You're ultimately very selfish. You only helped to satisfy your ridiculous desire to be around him. And do you know why you felt that urge to protect him?" He looked at John with sharp eyes that made John feel like one of Sherlock's experiments, dissected and bare on the table in their kitchen. "Because you love Sherlock Holmes."

John blinked, his mind processing what he had heard. He couldn't help the hysterical laughter the bubbled up out of his mouth. He tried to contain it with a hand over his mouth, but the chuckles spilled through the cracks. Moriarty's face morphed from viciously smug to confused rage.

"What, what did I miss?"

John cleared his throat, but kept his own grin. "You built it up with this grand speech and revealed it as if you didn't think I was aware of my own feelings. Of course I love him, more than he'll ever know." The grin fell away at the truth in his words. Moriarty had been right earlier, he was no Sherlock. He couldn't think of a way out of this. He was too afraid not to take the deal because even if Jim _was_ bluffing, what if he wasn't? He couldn't risk losing them, sacrificing them, disappointing them.

No, he knew that this was it. He was going to take the deal. Moriarty could see the shift in his eyes when he decided and it brought the smirk back to his face. He held out a hand to John. John took it reluctantly.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. I knew you'd be fun."

Abruptly, Watson was pushed away. He stumbled back and barely caught himself before he bashed his head on the door. He looked back to see the shiny barrel of the gun in Jim's mouth.

"No-," John started, stepping toward Moriarty with a hand outstretched. His doctor instinct had kicked in and his will to preserve life overshadowed his hatred for Jim.

It was too late.

The shot ran more shrilly than the cry of the long gone gull. Dazed, John stumbled back away from the bleeding head and still body. There was only him on the roof now. He knew what he needed to do. Walking stiffly, he approached the spider's abandoned perch and glanced over the edge. Nine stories. Definitely high enough to kill him instantly. He gulped.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he spun it in his hand for a few moments. He knew he didn't have a lot of time. Already, he could see the pinprick of red reflecting in the window of the building across the street. He could see Sherlock, still sitting with his knee bent.

He started typing on his phone.

His phone had been quiet for so long that Sherlock was vaguely surprised when it binged in his pocket. Thinking that it was John with news on Mrs. Hudson, he pulled it free from his pocket. It was a text from John.

_"Go outside. Stand five steps in front of the building." -JW_

Blinking, confused by the random message, he rose from his seated position to stride toward the exit. He trusted John; he knew that if John was telling him to go outside, he was safe. For whatever reason he was asking him to do this, it was a good one.

Two minutes later, he was standing where instructed. He looked up and down the sidewalk, across the street, in the windows of cars passing. His doctor was nowhere in sight.

His phone buzzed again.

_"On the roof, across the street. Do not come over here." -JW_

Bright eyes rose to see his friend standing on the edge of the building. Dread and fear sprang through him immediately and he took a step toward the building before remembering Watson's warning and stalling.

_"John, what is going on?" -SH_

It was unnerving not to know the answer as to why his best friend was standing nine stories above him. Sherlock wasn't used to not understanding things, he wasn't used to looking at something and not deciphering it immediately. 

_"This is my note." -JW_

Note? What note? What was the strange doctor talking about?

_"What are you talking about?" -SH_

Irritation was now drowning out the fear and the confusion. He liked this feeling more; he was used to this feeling and knew how to process it.

_"A suicide note, you dolt." -JW_

Cold dread swam through the detective, freezing the irritation and crushing it into dust. Desperation followed soon after, hot and sticky, a poison in his heart that made it stumble as his hands shook. His eyes tore from the bright screen to look at the figure of his best friend on that roof. His phone beeped.

John gulped tightly around the lump in his throat. He looked at his phone screen and knew what he needed to do. He needed to make this as easy on Sherlock as possible. Even if that meant making Holmes hate him.

_"Sherlock, I lied to you. The entire time. I researched you extensively before we met, which I arranged, to get close to you so that I could use your money and fame to my advantage. It was never about liking you or caring about you." -JW_

Sherlock's heart stopped before beating painfully against his chest cavity. No. _NO_. That was the lie. John cared about him. John loved him. He was one of the only who ever had.

_"That's a lie. You aren't clever enough to fool me for so long." -SH_

Watson laughed breathlessly at that, breathless around the tears. Same old Sherlock. Same old self assured, cocky, proud, _perfect_ Sherlock. A tear hit his phone screen and he knew that it was time. The red blip was back.

_"Goodbye, Sherlock." -JW_

Sherlock watched the phone fall to the ground. Bile rose in the back of his throat and cold, ugly reality spread through him when John fell immediately after.

John didn't know what to think. He didn't know if he _could_ think. If he thought for a split second, he'd change his mind. He'd back out. He'd let Sherlock get shot in his place and he wouldn't be able to live with himself anyway. This was the only way. So, he let his phone drop and then he let his body drop. He knew that he flailed as he fell, he was human after all. He might be determined to do this, but that didn't mean his body wasn't going to try to preserve itself. It was useless though, and in the last few seconds he closed his eyes and willed his limbs to relax and accept their fate.

John's name was heavy and hot on the tip of Sherlock's tongue but it got stuck in his throat with the bile and the rage and the confusion.

Sherlock had to look away when his body crashed into the ground. He expected sirens to go off immediately. He expected the world to stop turning and scramble. He expected something to change. But the world continued for a few moments. It kept going as if nothing had happened. It wasn't fair. Sherlock was struck by the injustice. John deserved more.

The sirens were coming now, the people had started shouting. A crowd had started and grown. Sherlock still couldn't look at him. He stood rooted in spot, even when Lestrade showed up. Even when that _stupid_ shock blanket was draped over his shoulders. He never looked, because he refused to believe that John Watson had lied to him.

\--

"Why would he do that? What did this accomplish?" Sherlock was pacing, uncharacteristically, back and forth across his living room. It was the first time he'd been in the flat in two weeks. Immediately after John's… death, it was still hard for Sherlock to think about it, he had been sent to Mycroft's home. He hadn't been happy about it at first and upon trying to return to the flat, had stood on the step for an hour before Lestrade collected him and returned him to his brother's. He had agreed to stay until Mycroft thought that he was ready to return. Completely ridiculous, in Sherlock's opinion, but it was easier to appease them than to fight. Lestrade had driven him here this morning.

Each door had been a challenge. Getting through the front door off the step had taken ten minutes of Lestrade badgering him. Walking up the steps had taken twice as long as it usually would because, in a completely ridiculous way, he was hoping that in that extra time, John would materialize in the flat. He'd have tea on a tray, he'd just be pouring Sherlock's because he assumed the consulting detective would be home soon. He'd smile in that soft, understanding way and hand him a cup, not saying a word until Sherlock sat down. He'd greet Lestrade with a grin and offer him tea as well. Lestrade would refuse.

He opened the door to the flat.

The air was stale and cold, unused. A light layer of dust had settled over everything. It was dark. Sherlock was suddenly struck with how much John's presence changed the flat. The idea of living alone again clenched Sherlock uncomfortably and he had to clear his throat before stepping foot into the almost foreign place.

Little bits of John were still scattered about. A book here, his laptop on the table, an atrocious sweater from Christmas that Sherlock had teased him about, but that he secretly enjoyed seeing John in. The dark haired man turned in a slow circle to face the door, and Lestrade, again. A soft whisper of pity and understanding fluttered across Lestrade's face before he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder in a show of support.

It was two hours after they arrived that Sherlock spoke for the first time, demanding _why_ this had happened.

The dark grey haired man was now sitting in the spare chair. Not his chair, though. No one was allowed in _his_ chair. Sherlock glanced at the police officer. In the last few weeks, he'd gained stress lines on his forehead and frown creases around his mouth. He looked older, sadder. The death of John Watson had hit them all very hard. Sherlock pushed the thoughts of the blonde doctor away. He wasn't ready to think about it yet. He might never be ready to think about it.

Lestrade sighed at him and his antics. It really surprised the man sometimes that Sherlock can be so _bloody brilliant_ one minute and a _daft twit_ the next. Pushing himself from the chair, he smoothed his pants and looked at the dark haired man.

"Honestly, Sherlock, you don't know why he did it?" He stared at the consulting detective for a moment, his eyes large and searching for something. He didn't appear to find it before he sighed and shook his head. "He did it because he loves you, you dolt."

The statement hit Sherlock in the chest and left a gaping hole in the region of his heart.

The last one to call him a dolt had been… _No. Not yet._

Lestrade left and Sherlock didn't notice. The door closed with a click and Sherlock sat for a long time. Long enough for his bones to ache. Long enough for Mrs. Hudson to come, eyes rimmed red and puffy from tears, to check on him and make sure he was okay. She made tea and muttered about not being thei— _his_ , landlady. Long enough for the sun to fall and darkness to fill the flat.

Finally, _finally_ , in the dark of the night, Sherlock felt from the couch and onto his knees. He pulled his knees across the floor, groping blindly along the other furniture, until his hands smoothed over the fabric of his chair, of _John's_ chair. He pulled himself into it and curled tightly so that his entire body fit in it. It smelled like John's shampoo and tea, with a hint of medicine and latex from gloves and surgery. Closing his eyes against the reality of the world, Sherlock ignored the tears dripping down his face and concentrated on the bright man who was gone.


End file.
